


On the Elephant

by ivyfluoresce



Category: Tool (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Circus, Domestic Violence, Nonbinary Character, Pushit - Tool, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24567211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyfluoresce/pseuds/ivyfluoresce
Summary: You know that I will choke until I swallow...Choke this infant here before me...What is this but my reflection?Who am I to judge or strike you down?Based on Tool's song, Pushit.
Kudos: 1





	On the Elephant

Eight came so quick.

Or is it nine this year?

Cameron’s age matters little to me. It’s only a count of the years I’ve watched my morals stretch and tire.

We’ve come to the circus to celebrate. That’s what Cam said they wanted -- they wanted to see the elephants, and the jugglers, and the trapeze artists -- and Adelaide’s afraid we’d better listen now that Cam’s becoming self-aware. How vague. I wonder if they can see it the way that I can see it, anytime I dedicate a modicum of mind to that kid: Cameron, reclined on a chaise lounge, giving some dead-eyed psychologist an earful on how their childhood consisted of rocking back and forth on a wooden horse while the shelves in the next room dumped their knickknacks to the floor. Cameron, recounting how whenever they wanted to hoard the chocolate in their mother’s therapy box, they had to tiptoe around glass shards and chunks of cotton keyed from the couch. Cameron, cranking up the television’s volume to drown out their parents’ escalating voices. Cameron, digging a two-inch metal spear from the heel of their foot because their mother was too drunk to bother and their father was busy looking for the screw he lost.

It was just a joke at first. In my Adelaide-induced delirium, it was hilarious. Sort of a _‘that poor kid, they’ll end up throwing their school funds at a therapist’_ -type thing. But now that Lady’s trying to one-eighty our approach to parenthood… I guess it was funnier in my head.

Cam’s staring at the aerial performers. For all the effort of unicyclers and magicians and lions through hoops of fire, Cameron’s preoccupied by a swing. A petty animosity in me wants a refund. But I can’t be so literal. Cameron’s a child. Maybe they see some anomaly up there that I don’t. Maybe it’s hypnotic if you stare long enough… Or maybe Cam relates to them: lithe figures in tiring havoc, stabilities left to the same unreliable grasps that hurl them back into uncertainty. It’s a cycle that momentum started and inertia perpetuates.

But marriage isn’t as easy as a trapeze.

My parents divorced when I was five years old. It wasn’t ideal, but it was palatable over growing up with that sense of strain in the background. Two halves of a family that pretended not to know each other was better than letting them grind away at what they once had. Lady disagrees. She doesn’t have prior experience with abusive or divorced parents, but holds strong to this stance. I’ve never asked why. I don’t need to. Cameron, at their core, is a funhouse mirror distorted by Adelaide. They’re a collage of features -- _her eyes, my jaw, her ears, my nose_ \-- which should never have been placed on the same face. Cameron, like Adelaide, has the slender pianist fingers that once beguiled my skin with their touch.

That’s why I’d break all ten of them, given the chance.

Adelaide deprives me of that.

I’m a man of flimsy morals, but I could never allow myself to hurt a child. All this talk of divorce, of going our own ways -- it’s all to fill the gap between us and I know it’s bullshit because I know that Adelaide feels the same way. For as long as I’m around, it doesn’t matter that Cameron has the same ophidian gaze that once entranced her from across the bar. There’s no moral keeping her from skewering mine with a fork.

Cameron probably feels right at home here in the circus. I can’t help but think how cruel that is, that we put this child through that. But what can I do about it? I’ve asked for competence. If Lady has to deal with me every day until Cameron is self-sufficient, why can’t we get along? Surely, there’s a reason we married in the first place. If we still elicit such visceral reactions from each other, there’s still gotta be some passion between us. Lady’s not a fan of that idea either. She uses this word… _‘Restrictive’._ Like I’m a leash, or a ball and chain. I don’t see it. Frankly, I couldn’t be more indifferent to the fate of this family. I don’t love these people; I tolerate them. I can’t be held responsible if I don’t care. 

Besides, hearing that from Lady’s mouth is ironic at best. Last Thursday, she alleges she got wrapped up in a parent-teacher conference, thanks to an essay Cam turned in. The details blur behind my bitterness; Adelaide failed to mention it before I got home despite knowing the panic I would undergo turning the house upside-down, the frantic phone calls I would make, the way I would tear up my voice screaming that kid’s name… I’m sure she’ll chalk it up to orthodox when I ask. She knew I’d go if I knew, and it’s easier to overlook suspicions of domestic unrest when presented with a motherly face than a fatherly one. But eight years -- or maybe nine -- that I’ve been stitched to that woman’s side because I know that we’re not the only ones in danger of slipping into the gap.

Today, she’ll remember just how unreliable our grasps are.

The tickets were twenty each. I’ve spent fifty -- ten on the elephant clutched to Cam’s chest.

I’ll chalk it up to paternal bonding when she asks.

Cam’s gaze drops to the clowns, and I’m jarred for a minute. They were so fixated on the trapeze that I thought one may have fallen. That’s not the case, of course; they’re still up there, carelessly yet masterfully tossing each other around like tissues from the box. Clowns swarm the ground in any spotlight that the ringmaster hasn’t already filled with some other performer. They’re jugglers, jesters, mimes, and swordeaters. And suddenly I pity Cam, because I realise I could aptly compare their role in the family to any circus act taking place. And then I’m unnerved by it. Our family’s a circus. A freakshow. And Cameron’s the unfortunate stray who’s only around because they rely on us for clothes and food. They watch our antics, take part in some out of necessity, and then stare up at the trapeze and dream of flying -- flying beyond the shiver of the elephant’s ears and the acrobats stacking bodies like cards and the rope-walker’s outstretched arms and the peak of the circus tent’s stripes… Beyond the trees and the utility poles, beyond the clouds and the moon. If Cameron could fly, they would go to better places. Anyplace but this.

“Dad?”

They're holding the stuffed elephant toward me. I take it.

“Can I get cotton candy? It’s five dollars,” they say, and smile a smile that’s missing two new teeth. Two. Cameron’s in third grade.

I stand and follow the child through the audience. They’d memorised the path to and from the refreshment stand. To them, that was a higher priority than finding personal significance in a circus clown.

I’m silly. Even if Adelaide’s right about Cam becoming self-aware, they probably don’t even know what a metaphor is yet. Cameron’s not thinking about home. Cameron’s being a kid. Their excitement is bubbling. Their attention is spastic. The plush in my hand is just a ten-dollar birthday present.

They’re not an extension of us.

This memory won’t last.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, it's Dom. I wrote this one-shot a long while back (based on Tool's song, "Pushit") -- one of my favourite less-flowery pieces. Figured I'd share since I'm in a bit of a block for one of my other stories. Let me know what you think. :)
> 
> If you care to follow my writing to get to know me personally, my Twitter is @/inkyfluoresce (U before the O... common mistake). Have a lovely day!


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